Chapter Forty-Three
Aemyra lost track of how long she knelt beside her father’s body as the aftermath of the battle raged around her.
From the ashes of her destruction, Edinbane was rising up against the supporters of the True Religion. The phoenix warriors had freed the priestesses, who were rousing the citizens in the name of the queen, and the chimera warriors had freed the rebels from the dungeons in record time.
Fiorean and Adarian were singlehandedly coordinating the chaos.
Aervor’s intimidating presence and Fiorean’s magic were doing much to convince the few soldiers left with a mind to fight to lay down their weapons and surrender.
Their laird was dead, the Covenanter force razed to cinders, and soon cheers for the true queen crested the walls.
But all Aemyra could hear was the constant beating of the tide against the sand as she knelt.
Draevan had died in the open, and she knew there would be no containing a soul as wild as her father’s, but she didn’t want him to be alone in the Otherworld.
Glancing up from his pale face, she saw Laoise was embracing her brother in the shallows. Laird Edouard had been plucked from the waves, and Aemyra was glad someone had been spared grief this night.
With trembling fingers, she began to peel off Draevan’s armor. Starting with the pauldrons, she handled her father’s body far more gently than she ever had in life. His calloused hands were revealed as she pulled off his vambraces and dropped them onto the sand.
She had been a fool to think they would have time together after the war. After so much loss, she should have anticipated this.
Reaching forward, Aemyra wrapped her hand around the crossbow bolt sticking out of her father’s chest. Gritting her teeth, she felt her skin strain against the smooth wood in an attempt to pull it free. The bolt was stuck in bone and had passed through the solid metal of his breastplate.
Sweat dripped from her brow and she blinked it out of her eyes in frustration. Sucking in a breath, her shoulder muscles protesting, she finally pulled it free.
With a roar of grief that echoed across the beach, Aemyra launched the offending weapon toward the sea. Before it fell, the wood incinerated at the touch of her magic.
Placing her fire-warmed palm atop the wound, Aemyra wished she could have somehow stopped this from happening.
“The Tìr Teine you dreamed of will come to pass,” Aemyra whispered when her father’s body was free of armor and he lay in his black shirt and breeches.
“Your blood will sit the throne for generations to come, and your name will never be forgotten.” She bent forward and placed a kiss to her father’s forehead, trying not to wince at how cold it already was.
“On my word, dragons will return to Erisocia.”
Fear had gotten her nowhere; it hadn’t protected anyone. She had no place for it anymore.
She heard soft footfalls and a gentle hand came to rest on her shoulder, followed by the scent of lilac and orange blossom tinged with blood.
“The city is yours. We must move your father’s body to the temple,” Fiorean said quietly.
Knowing she couldn’t kneel on the beach forever, Aemyra gathered her strength. Burrowing her hands into the sand under her father’s body, she brought her legs underneath her and prepared to lift him.
“Aems, we can—” Adarian started.
Fiorean held out a hand to stop her twin. “Let her do this,” he said.
Aemyra staggered a little on the sandy ground before hoisting Draevan’s body securely into her arms.
Breath coming in gasps as she engaged her aching core, Aemyra walked on shaking legs toward the city gate. In the moonlight, phoenixes dropped silently from the sky to line the path, warriors lighting her way with their flame.
Aemyra could not look at them, barely understanding how they could still support the queen who had ordered their sisters to sacrifice themselves.
The wall loomed large, the city beyond filled with expectant faces. Soldiers and civilians, Dùileach and non-Dùileach, chimeras and firebirds and stray dogs all crowding the streets to get a glimpse of the queen who had liberated them.
Leaving behind thousands of dead Covenanters on the beach, Aemyra stepped into the city that remained blessedly untouched by her violence.
Each step was torture, every breath a penance, as she bore her father’s body to the temple.
The Dùileach lining the streets took up the phoenixes’ tribute, lifting their flames as the queen passed.
When a small child held out a stick for a chimera warrior to light and proudly stuck it into the air, Aemyra nearly fell to the ground.
There were no more cheers as her people looked upon the devastation on their queen’s face. All of them able to see exactly how much victory had cost her.
Alfred had been a fool to declare himself Almighty and bring so many Covenanters into Tìr Teine.
The insurgent non-Dùileach had been loud in their extremism, but they had been in the minority.
Fear and intimidation by Laird Lorna might have worked for a while, but the moment Aemyra had given Clan Sutherland a choice to surrender, they had taken it.
She could see them now, battered and bloodstained, keeping to the shadows, shame lining their faces.
The steady presence of Adarian and Fiorean kept her on the right path.
Aemyra’s arms were leaden and sweat pooled between her shoulder blades, the spear injury protesting with every step, but she did not stop.
She had been unable to give the last rites to Orlagh, Pàdraig, or Lachlann, but she would give her father this honor.
With the flames of her people lighting the way, Aemyra arrived at what had once been Brigid’s temple.
Priestesses fanned out from the steps, all sporting black eyes and torn robes.
“May Brigid bless and keep him,” they began muttering, placing gentle hands on Draevan’s body, their touch guiding her into the temple.
The stone walls were crumbling, the glass globes shattered, but just the presence of the priestesses was enough to ground her.
Aemyra would prove Sorcha wrong by constructing cities where her people would have the freedom to worship both the Savior and the Goddesses together.
Thear would teach her how to be a fair ruler, Riya would keep her humble, Fiorean would sharpen her wit, and Adarian would temper her blade. And then there was Bronwyn, who would teach her everything that had been lost from memory.
It wouldn’t be easy, but Aemyra had faced far harder challenges.
Glass crunched under her boots as Aemyra entered the dilapidated temple. Loose stones clattered in the empty space, the eternal fire extinguished.
But the altar was mercifully intact, and Aemyra staggered only a little as she finally laid Draevan’s body upon it.
She felt Fiorean hovering, but he did not touch her as she bent over the altar, blessed relief flooding her body at the lack of weight.
Filling her lungs with air, Aemyra laid her head on her father’s bloodied chest.
This war had ended the moment the bolt had pierced his heart. As surely as the arrow had ripped through muscle and sinew, the last vestiges of fear clinging to Aemyra’s soul had been torn apart.
Draevan had died so suddenly, there had been no time for last words or spoken forgiveness.
His final act had been to save Fiorean, and Aemyra hoped his spirit knew how grateful she was.
Straightening, Aemyra looked at the back wall, the statue of Brigid towering before it, and fire surged from her skin in a giant wave.
The priestesses fell to their knees, intoning prayers to the Goddess, and even Adarian shielded his face from the wall of heat.
Just as she had felt the touch of the Goddess when facing down Kolreath, Aemyra felt Brigid accept her flame, making it eternal. Before the Otherworldly presence faded, Aemyra felt the promise mark burn like the heart of a dying fire. As if it knew the offering was imminent.
Letting go of the magic, Aemyra watched the fire lick up the wall behind the altar and knew the time had come.
“Fiorean!”
The shout came from the entrance to the temple, and Aemyra whirled around to find Katherine rushing toward her son.
With a grunt of pain speaking of his own aches, Fiorean embraced his mother.
“You said you would return to camp,” he chastised softly.
“I couldn’t bear it. I watched the battle from the hill and a phoenix warrior escorted me here when it was…over.” Her voice petered out when she saw Draevan on the altar.
The dowager queen’s face was drawn, but Aemyra hadn’t expected the depth of emotion within those gray eyes. Her soft steps echoed in the temple, the priestesses still whispering gentle prayers on their knees.
Aemyra stiffened when Katherine laid a gentle hand on Draevan’s chest.
“You saved my son,” she said gently. “For that I will thank you.”
Adarian’s brow was furrowed over tearstained cheeks, but there would be time for reconciliation later.
Unclipping her father’s sword belt, Aemyra set Dorchadas reverently on the altar.
Instinctively knowing what the queen wanted, the priestesses brought her a pot of blessed oil.
Aemyra began braiding his hair, running her fingers through the long strands. The shade was exactly the same as her own, and yet far smoother.
Draevan’s tall frame dwarfed the altar even in death.
Breathing evenly, Aemyra wove the strands together and secured the end of her father’s braid.
She heard the tinkling of water as another priestess placed a bowl and washcloth beside his body.
She couldn’t remove Draevan’s dirty clothes until someone procured wrappings fit for the Prince of Penryth, but she cleaned the grime from his face and the blood from his chest. The hole the crossbow had left in his sternum was jarring, even for her healer’s eyes.
She had witnessed worse injuries, but no daughter should see her own father’s pierced heart.
Buttoning the shirt over the wound, Aemyra dipped two fingers into the oil.